The Last Laugh
by KAStone
Summary: Upon being faced with the choice to sacrifice either himself or his friends, even the great Sherlock Holmes can't find a way out. Or can he? Maybe, with the helpful guidance of an old friend.


**My (extremely accurate) theory on Sherlock's figuring out a way to fake his death. He gets a visit and a pep talk from an old friend.**

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The Last Laugh

Sherlock was flooded with emotions as he stared at Moriarty's dead body. Anger- no rage- at the man's final "game". Sadness, that he couldn't do more. Fear, knowing what he was about to do. And a deep regret for being forced to leave before he was ready. There were so many things he'd wanted to do, things he'd wanted to say.

John.

The thought hit his heart harder than he knew the ground would.

John.

He couldn't leave John. But he had to, or he would die. He needed to protect John.

Pushing away his emotions- they'd never done anyone any good- Sherlock stepped up to the ledge- and heard a noise he hadn't heard in years. Not since he was a kid. He whipped around just in time to see the bright blue box materialize on the roof. After the noise ceased, there was an uncomfortable moment of silence. For the second time today, Sherlock didn't know what to do. That was something that hadn't happened at all until today.

The door slowly creaked open and Sherlock found himself faced once again with his imaginary friend. The man in the bowtie and his box had visited Sherlock frequently when he was a child. He'd always marveled at the wonders of this man. The man had always told Sherlock how clever he was. The man- the Doctor, Sherlock remembered- was the only one who'd ever appreciated his level of genius. Save John, of course. He'd been in that box before, the one that was bigger on the inside and traveled between the stars. Sherlock waited every night for the Doctor to visit. Until, that is, he stopped coming.

Sherlock remembered the nights he'd waited without even a sign. How long had it taken for him to finally stop? Weeks? Months? Had he ever truly stopped? I didn't matter anymore. He never thought about it anymore. His father had always told him he was simply a dream and that he was foolish for having an imaginary friend like an average child.

But now here he was. Here was Sherlock, facing this specter from his past that was clearly not a dream right before he took the final plunge to his death.

"Hello again," the Doctor said casually with a knowing grin on his face, standing half-inside his box.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock's plan to quell his emotions failed and he continued, "You left me. You never came back. And now you're too late. I know you! I know you could have stopped this! But no. You had to come back right at the end, just so you could have the last laugh." Sherlock's eyes burned and there was a huge lump in his throat. Was he crying? Why was he crying? He hadn't cried since he was a child.

"Sherlock," the Doctor soothed, "this is a fixed point. There's nothing I could have done." He leaned against the side of the door he'd left open and crossed his arms. "I just came back to tell you I was sorry," he paused, "and to pay back a favor."

"You don't owe me any favors," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, beginning to regain control over his emotions.

"No, but I will," the Doctor replied cryptically. He gestured inside the box. "What do you say, Sherlock? One more trip, for old times sake? Wherever you want to go."

"What makes you think I want to go anywhere with you?"

"Come on now, Sherlock," the Doctor continued, almost condescendingly, "There has to be somewhere you want to go. A final wish for the great consulting detective?" When Sherlock still failed to answer, the Doctor coaxed, "Maybe something you left undone? Something you want someone to know? Or perhaps someone you want to see just one more time?"

At the Doctor's last suggestion Sherlock felt yet another twinge of guilt. John. Could he really see John one more time? There were so many things Sherlock wished he could say to him. He might as well ask, seeing as apparently the Doctor owed him one.

"Could you take me to see John?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, making him feel like a child again.

The Doctor smiled as if he had already known he would ask that. He turned and sauntered back into his box, leaving the door ajar. Sherlock followed and found himself shocked at the amount of nostalgia he felt at the sci-fi interior. The Doctor stood at the central console flipping switches and pushing buttons, but not with the same excitement and fervor that Sherlock remembered.

"Now," the Doctor began to explain, "the place that I'm going to take you is a point in John's future. His future where you're dead. You won't be able to talk to him or let him see you. Are you sure you still want to do this?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, struggling to picture John in a future that didn't include him.

Their short jaunt into the future was taken in silence. The TARDIS materialized in a graveyard. Sherlock stepped out of the box and quickly located John. He quickly ducked behind a tree to avoid being seen. John was standing over a freshly-dug grave. He was the only one left. Sherlock could tell there had been a few others, but now it was only John.

That's my grave, Sherlock thought, my body's buried there.

This was not fair. Sherlock Holmes- who was always in control of every aspect of a situation, who could always find a way around the inevitable- was buried in the ground while his only real friend stood over him. And he couldn't even tell him he was sorry. John would never know the real reason he had jumped. Sherlock realized that he had never taken into consideration John's feelings, mainly because he'd been trying to hide his own. Now, finally, Sherlock Holmes was seeing the consequences of his actions. He had gone against Moriarty because he'd wanted to. He hadn't even thought about John, and he felt horrible. He loved John. He loved John and John would never know because he couldn't tell him now and he couldn't stay and he'd have to go back and jump because it was the only way to save John's life.

He was mad at the Doctor. The Time Lord had left him when he was a child and he'd come back at the last minute to dangle John in front of him, just out of reach. It wasn't fair.

Sherlock, ashamed of himself and his choices, pried his eyes off his friend and made his way back to the TARDIS so he could jump and never hurt anyone again.

The Doctor, though, had something else in mind.

He's met many people in his life, but Sherlock was the only one he'd ever truly thought was as clever as himself. The boy'd had a special way of looking at the world, of being able to notice everything, that had told the Doctor he'd be destined for greatness. After all, that was how he himself saw things, wasn't it? He knew quite a bit about this exceptional man, and probably the most important was that he didn't die today.

So when Sherlock came back, clearly upset, the Doctor knew he'd be the target of his rage. Especially when Sherlock found him lounging casually, his feet up on the console and his arms crossed.

"What is wrong with you?" Sherlock demanded, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I owe you a favor," the Doctor replied simply.

"No you don't."

"Not yet, but I will."

"Well this is no favor. What good did it do to show me this? I couldn't even talk to him."

The Doctor abruptly stood up and confronted Sherlock to his face. "Are you giving up? The Great Sherlock Holmes, is giving up? Are you really going to do this?"

"There's nothing else I can do. If I don't jump it'll be John in that grave. Or Molly. Or Mrs. Hudson. What. Am. I. Supposed. To. Do?" With each word the Doctor could see Sherlock losing control of his anger. He looked like he as about to punch him in the face.

The Doctor backed down slightly, straightened his bowtie, and flashed Sherlock his clever I-know-something-you-don't-know grin. "You're the clever one," he said, "What do you think you should do?" He emphasized the 'you' by poking Sherlock in the chest causing them both to rock back slightly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it, Sherlock. You are the most clever human I've ever met. If anyone can cheat death, it's you."

"But I saw my grave," Sherlock countered, "That can't be rewritten. I was buried in the ground."

"Were you?" the Doctor challenged.

That question threw Sherlock into his thinking mode. The Doctor could see the metaphorical gears turning in his head. "There you go!" he proclaimed, "There's the Sherlock I know!"

Sherlock knew the Doctor was right. He could cheat death. He was always one step ahead. He wouldn't have to deal with the world moving on without him just yet. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was clever. He always found a way.

"Could you help me?" Sherlock asked his childhood friend. "I have an idea, but there's something I need to do."

"Of course," the Doctor said returning to the controls. "Geronimo!"

"Geronimo!" Sherlock agreed.

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**Hope you didn't hate it! Review if you like.**


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